


Cracked Stone, Cracked Self

by kayisdreaming



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Implied Sexual Content but nothing explicit, M/M, i get that this isnt actually how crest stones work but WHAT IF, implied consideration of suicide, it's bully sylvain hours, look I was going for horror so assume those triggers, no happy ending, pre-established dimivain, wanted horror but it turned to whump, warning for sort of emetophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26906755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: ’Or, perhaps, you do get it.’ His father’s eyes shifted down to Sylvain’s hands, an eyebrow raised.Sylvain swallowed. “Get what?”His father smiled. ‘You wanted to destroy our legacy. It’s only just that it destroys you.’__Sylvain learns that the only thing that keeps the Holy Relics from devouring their Crest bearers is the Crest Stone. And Sylvain has just shattered the Crest Stone of Gautier.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Cracked Stone, Cracked Self

Sylvain exhaled slowly, eyes following the way his breath curled around him. Ice stung at the back of his throat, eyes watering from the chill that cut at his face. But each breath proved that he was alive. Every pain merely proved that he could live another day.

That was more than could be said for the bandits. His eyes slid across the snow, to the crimson lakes soaking into trampled dirt. The bodies were being piled now, his men grunting with the effort. Blood stained their armor, dripping down into their footprints.

“That’s all of them, my Lord.” One of his men said, a fist to his chest.

Sylvain nodded, walking up to the pile. There were more than he expected; not all of them were men born to battle. Sreng’s incursions had been fewer lately; part of it was his growing efforts to communicate with them, the other part was from the Kingdom finally having enough resources to devote their attention to defense. Bandits like these would never cease, but they would also never survive.

He sighed, lifting his hand. Magic sparked at his fingertips, the sigil’s light illuminating the faces of his once-enemies. Blank eyes stared up at him—loathing strong even in dead men. Their faces burned away as his magic blaze raged, but he could still feel their hatred beneath his skin.

It wasn’t like he wanted this. He couldn’t get them to understand that Gautier was no longer their enemy. And he couldn’t let them raze the countryside and target his people. He could only offer them the Srengi honor of cremation, so their souls might scatter to the winds.

“Pack up.” He said, pressing his fingertips into his palm. It was a strange sensation there, like the magic had not yet dissipated. “Let’s head back.”

Fire flickered in front of him, the flames spreading long shadows across the camp. The flames crackled against the cold, embers sparking up into the air as the wood fell apart. He slid another log against the coals, the flames bright for a fleeting moment as the bark caught. The other men had already gone to bed, their snores riding the sound of the gentle breeze. In the distance, wind rustled the leaves like it rustled his hair.

Tomorrow, they’d return to Gautier.

He sighed, pressing his back against the tree. He didn’t dislike it there. Gautier was still cold and harsh, but it was no longer the same prison that it had once been. His father’s will no longer pierced into his skin, following him like a shadow. He no longer felt the shackles of his prison around his neck, even if he knew it was still there.

There was peace to be found in Gautier. There were his people recovering from the war, greeting him in a way they never had for his predecessors. There were his men, loyal and willing to follow him into hell. There was Ingrid, coming over every spring to make sure he was still behaving. There was Felix, visiting on the strangest occasions, always to challenge him to a duel to make sure he wasn’t slipping. And there was Dimitri—

He winced, left hand burning like there was magic still sparking in his veins. He groaned, fist gripping tight. He willed it to move, for the magic to dissipate. Tried to visualize the energy warping into something tangible, or just dissipating entirely.

But the magic stuck there and simmered. It didn’t even grant him the mercy of a flame, instead threatening to burn him from the inside out. Panic stuck in his throat, breaths rapid and uneven.

No. He had to breathe. He’d gone through this before as a teen; it was just the sensation of a magic used improperly, or from trying something well past his skill level. He’d felt it often when attempting the Professor’s lessons.

Back then, though, he was an amateur, unskilled and reckless. Nothing done today should have been more than a moment’s consideration. Nothing should have done _this_.

Maybe he’d lost his touch in the relative peace after war.

A trickling caught his attention, slow but steady. There weren’t any rivers nearby, and the air was still cold enough to prevent any sort of snow melt. Fist clenched, Sylvain rose from his place by the fire, peering into the darkness that surrounded the camp.

The air was still now. The fire’s crackling had faded with a lack of fuel. Even the men had quieted, their breaths stifled by the fabric of their tents.

He walked around the camp, looking for the source. The sound of his footsteps seemed to bounce off the trees, crunching snow an echo that mocked him. But louder still was that noise. Like blood dripping from an unstemmed wound. Thick and heavy, deafening in the quiet of the night.

But there was nothing there.

He sighed. Maybe it was an overactive imagination. Maybe some desperate attempt to make him forget the throbbing in his hand. Maybe it was just the consequence of too little sleep.

His eyes flicked back to the light of the campfire, eyes catching on something impossible. Every muscle in his body froze.

The fire had burnt out in his inattention, embers glowing dimly in the night. And yet his former seat glowed as if a fire blazed around it. Everything was covered in a blood-red light, the color making his stomach turn.

The source was leaning against a nearby tree, right where he’d left it. He’d always left the Lance of Ruin somewhat nearby, but far enough away that he wouldn’t have to look directly upon it. Its current circumstance—the red light pulsating from its stone like a command—permitted nothing less than his full attention.

Every part of it radiating that sickening light as if there was a fire burning deep within it. Sure, it was like that when he held it normally; but away from him like this, it should have looked like any other weapon. And yet, even so far away, the minor protrusions of the Lance twitched as if beckoning him. The closer he stepped, the more the weapon glowed and twitched and called to him.

It wanted him to touch it, and Sylvain—ever the curious fool—had to find out why.

He reached out, fingertips brushing over the rough texture of the Lance’s protrusions. It was hot to the touch, but it wasn’t just physical. There was something deeper there, a magic prodding against his own, jabbing like needles.

Thick liquid dribbled onto his fingers, dropping from the lance. It was uncomfortably warm, even as he rubbed the viscous material between his fingers. It wasn’t blood—no, there color was far too dark for that. And it couldn’t be sap, either—while it was thick, it spread easily, not even slightly sticky as it spread over and stained his skin.

His eyes followed the trail upward. The strange material ran down from the blade, forming small streams along the Lance’s protrusions. Some of the liquid fell to the ground beneath it, the growing puddle the clear cause of the trickling noise. But that still didn’t explain the source.

The light flickered again and he saw it. The Crest Stone’s glow was weak in comparison to the rest of the Lance. Even so, he could see the deep scar that drove through the center of the crystal, shattering Gautier’s crest in two. If it was hit again, he had no doubt that the stone would shatter.

His breath caught in his throat as it accused him with another flicker. Tentatively, he reached out, fingers brushing against the crack.

_Fear. The cold of rain soaking into clothing. Yells and shouts all around him. A Lance digging into the flesh of the creature that loomed above him, hot breath threatening fire on the skin. A splatter of black on his armor, thick and viscous, dripping down his arm and spreading. The low growl of a giant beast. A dead brother. Pain_.

“Margrave?” The voice jerked Sylvain from his thoughts, his hand snapping away from the Crest stone.

Sylvain pushed the images from his mind. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes snapping to the man watching him.

“My Lord, it’s,” the man fidgeted, like he was afraid Sylvain would lash out at him, “it’s my turn for watch?”

Sylvain smiled. “Ah, of course. I guess I lost time cleaning. Thank you.”

Taking the Lance in hand, Sylvain went to his tent. He set the Relic down in front of him, watching as the light thrummed and cast his shadow against the fabric of his tent. The Lance twitched constantly as if his presence was hurting it. As if it wasn’t clearly the cause of a growing ache in his bones.

When he returned to Gautier, he found himself falling into old habits. It was easy to pretend that aches and pains didn’t exist—easy to imagine that the sensations were just a part of his age catching up with him, exasperated by his imagination. It was easy to ignore them as he worked, to fall back into his role as a Gautier. It was easy to not think of the Lance of Ruin still glowing and angry deep in the vaults of Gautier.

Sylvain was good at lying to himself. But even he knew that couldn’t last forever.

Sylvain’s footsteps echoed off stone walls as he walked into his room. His curtains shifted with the slight breeze, cold air circling around him. The sun had set hours ago; the candle at his nightstand nearly ran out of wax. The light of the flickering flame barely reached his feet.

He sighed, stepping to the other end of the room and shutting the window. The moon was already up high, its rays making the snow around the manor glow. It pressed into his room, insistent in a way that his candle no longer even attempted. It was a calm ignorant to the troubles outside its borders.

The moment his hand touched the windowsill, a sharp pain shot up his arm. He gasped, fingers grasping into the fabric of the curtains. It was like a spark beneath his skin, radiating outward like a rampaging flame. Pain tore at his lungs, making his breaths shallow and useless.

Fabric ripped, and Sylvain’s mind snapped back into focus.

He inhaled slowly. Held it. Released a long exhale. He removed each finger from the curtain with purpose, watching them uncurl from torn threads. He inhaled again, pulling at the fingers of his gloves.

There was a dark spot spread across his palm, the skin stained there almost as if ink had been poured directly upon it. It was darker at the center, a strange grey diminishing in potency as it spread out, up until it blended into the natural tone of his skin.

But ink washed out. He’d scrubbed it for hours when he returned home, eyes keen for any change, any weakening in the color. It didn’t matter if he tried soaps, or hot water, or magic, or even odd chemical combinations. It stayed there, as potent as the first day he’d seen it.

And ink stains didn’t spread. It had been an insignificant thing at first; no larger than a gold coin. In the first few days, he thought his imagination conjured it from poor sleep, a pain-addled mind, an abundance of distractions. But the way it grew was irregular—the darkness stretching out like spider limbs reaching for his fingers. After a week, it reached across to each side of his palm, one strange tendril wrapping around his ring finger. Most of his skin there was tinged grey, if it was not already stained by the darkness.

Where it was stained, the nerves were painfully sensitive. It was as if a fire was constantly smoldering beneath his skin as it tried to eat him away. A fire without smoke, without smell—not even warm to the touch.

One night, in a fit of panic, he’d tried to claw it away. He was desperate—almost desperate enough to lose the hand. He clawed and clawed and clawed until he was exhausted, falling into his bed. The following morning, he woke to see the sheets had been stained with black blood, his hand was unmarred. The marking sat there, mocking him.

He’d burned those sheets.

Now, he just fell into his bed, resigned. He just had to wait until his exhaustion won against the distraction of pain.

_He’s surrounded. He knows he is—can tell from the voices shouting, from the screams and curses and vitriol spat at him. But he has to fight—has to stay standing. If he stops, he dies._

_He swings the lance around, the weapon glowing fantastically in his hand as he strikes. Fire sparks from his fingertips, magic lighting the sky in its magnificence. Enemies fall by the dozens, their blood staining the grass at his feet._

_But they keep coming, refusing to give up._

_Exhaustion is wearing at him; he can’t feel it, but he can tell by how slowly he swings the Lance, by how long it takes for magic to meet his summons. He can tell by the numbers growing, rage-filled eyes dominating his vision._

_The Lance is struck from his hand, its light flickering out as its tip sticks in the snow._

_He steps back, knowing his magic will not flow in enough time to save him. His only chance lies in his friends, in the others who surely know he’s being attacked. They will come and they will save him and once again they will lecture him for being careless, for refusing to take his responsibilities seriously. They’ll come._

_His back presses against stone as the distance between him and his attackers lessens. Nameless faces, though it hardly matters. He knows that look in their eyes._

_“Allow me.” A voice says, and the crowd parts._

_Sylvain knows that face. He can’t help the emotion bubbling in his chest at that familiar blue eye, at the blonde hair desperately in need of a haircut, at the armor that makes him seem more a mountain than a man. He smiles._

_‘Sweetheart,’ Sylvain wants to say, but his voice doesn’t cooperate. ‘Love,’ he tries again, but his mouth refuses to form the word. ‘Dimitri,’ he finally attempts—_

_—and out comes a roar._

_Dimitri falters, but it’s only momentary. Instead, his hand grips tighter around Areadbhar, his other hand motioning with a flick of his fingers. There are the others—Felix, Ingrid, Annette, Mercedes, Dedue, Ashe—and he wants to call out to them, to tell them there must be a mistake. But all he can do is roar, and all he earns are their faces contorted in terror._

_But Dimitri doesn’t look afraid. Instead, his expression hardens. “All we can do now,” he says, “is put an end to it.”_

_Dimitri charges, Areadbhar glowing in his hand._

Sylvain jolted upright, breaths heavy and uneven. His fingers were trembling, but not from the cold air brushing over sweat-covered skin. No, it was the same reason why his stomach churned, threatening his dinner. It was the same reason his cheeks felt damp when he wiped his eyes. It was the same reason why his knees threatened to buckle as he rose from his bed.

He didn’t dare to go back to sleep.

Instead, he let his feet lead him through the manor. Dark shadows spread across the halls, the moon too high in the sky to peek through the windows. All the candles were blown out, the staff having retreated to their beds hours ago. Guards were likely patrolling, but they never game this far into the manor—there was no reason to.

He continued down the hall, eyes falling upon the large portraits just to the side of each door. These were the rooms of his forebearers—their portraits standing guard of their former haven. All of them watched him as he passed, but he was used to it. 

He paused, looking up at the work of a painter Sylvain had cursed a thousand times. The man had captured every one of his father’s features perfectly; the set of his jaw, the curve of his frown, the way his hair was pulled back with every hair in place, the way those eyes of his always looked dark and threatening. He’d even captured the constant evaluation beneath the former Margrave’s expression, especially the way he looked when Sylvain constantly fell short.

A part of him wanted to take it down, just to spare himself the accusations every time he walked to his office. Doing so, though, would make him everything his father had always imagined him to be. Weak, worthless, spineless—

‘ _You’re unworthy of your legacy.’_

Sylvain startled, head whipping around. The voice had been faint, like a whisper just behind his shoulder. The familiarity made his heartbeat thrum in his ears, his heart pounding in his ribcage.

But the halls were empty.

He sighed, shaking his head. Perhaps he would find distraction in his office, in the dusty old books, maps, and piles of letters he had yet to read.

“So, how does a pretty girl like you wind up running a shop like this?” Sylvain leaned against the counter, smile sweet and charming. “Someone like you should have men lining up to sweep you off your feet.”

The shopkeeper smiled, shaking her head. “Is that so, Margrave?” Her deft fingers wrapped tea leaves in paper packages, the smell of bergamot and chamomile mixing together in a bizarre way. Her movements didn’t pause, even as she looked up at him. “Are you offering?”

Sylvain laughed, letting his chin rest on his fist. “You know you’re too good for me, sweetheart.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” She laughed. “Perhaps I should aim higher than a charming, handsome, noble man. Any suggestions, Margrave?”

Sylvain hummed, smile lazy. If he had to say, he’d point to men far outside of Gautier. In the pleasant lands far to the south, or to the west. Where things had started to fully settle, where peace and prosperity was sinking in. Where the people weren’t as frigid as the land.

But people like her had never left the confines of Gautier. They didn’t know the beauty of the world outside its borders, of the lives they could have there. They only knew this place, trusted the constancy of the snow and Sreng and each other. Trusted Sylvain.

‘ _Pathetic_.’

Sylvain blinked, glancing behind him. It was like a man whispering directly into his ear, close enough that he would have felt the breath that accompanied each syllable. But, other than him and the shopkeeper, the shop was empty.

“Margrave?” Her voice was soft, sweet. “Did you hear me?”

Sylvain swallowed, gaze flicking around the room again before he smiled back at her. “Sorry, thought I heard something.”

She blinked. “My Lord?”

He stared down at the tea packages in front of him, delicately taking them in hand. He didn’t miss the way she looked at him as he dropped coins onto the wood. Her expression was pinched, an eyebrow raised. “It’s nothing. I should probably head back before the blacksmith sells my lance.”

She nodded, but the smile didn’t return. Instead, her expression was shifting—from bewildered to concerned. Her voice was far too light and airy, the unnaturalness of it setting his hairs on end. “Of course, Margrave. Have a pleasant day.”

Sylvain tucked the goods under his arm, trying not to be hasty as he left the shop. Once more, he glanced over his shoulder. There had to be someone else there—someone else he hadn’t seen, or hadn’t acknowledged. But it was empty, all except for the girl who looked at him, eyes wide, lips parted, like he was a bandit set to destroy everything she ever loved.

He stepped away from the shop, wincing at the sound of the door shutting behind him. It was strange; he was used to those sorts of looks, to people seeing him as an absurdity. But usually he had done something to deserve it. Maybe he had offended her; maybe she was upset he didn’t press for her attention. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened.

He continued through the town street, the crunch of gravel beneath his feet nearly deafening. But it wasn’t like the streets were empty. He knew people were there; he could hear their voices in the `whispers surrounding him. He could see them pass, catch their gazes in his peripherals. When he looked up, though, everyone’s eyes were averted. Like they could sense his confusion and couldn’t bear being caught.

Sylvain swallowed, rubbing his face. Just another errand. One more errand and he could go home.

He stepped into the blacksmith’s building, the heat nearly stifling. It melted the snow that snuck in through the door, made Sylvain sweat beneath his coat. The smell of coal burned at his nostrils and at the back of his throat. The clang of a smith at work hammered into Sylvain’s skull, even though it was well out of sight.

“Margrave.” The blacksmith smiled, brushing off dust and oil-covered hands against his leather apron. “You’re here late.”

“What can I say,” Sylvain shrugged, noting the sound of the other hammer slowing, “I got distracted.”

“I’m sure you did, my Lord.” The man laughed, turning and fiddling with a locked case behind him.

“So, what’s the verdict?”

“Good news and bad news, I’m afraid.”

From the case, the smith pulled out the Lance of Ruin and set it upon his workbench. The gash still dug deep into the Crest, a voiceless accusation.

“We cleaned that residue you were concerned about—don’t worry, we were safe about it. Even had a mage come and look at it. The man said it was probably Beast blood, or whatever it is those things have.” The smith rubbed a thumb against the crack, showing the clean pad to Sylvain. “Hasn’t come up again.”

Sylvain’s lip twitched. “That’s the bad news, right?”

The man laughed, the noise echoing in the building as much as the hammering. “Good one, my Lord.” He shook his head, motioning to the crack. “We tried everything. Even reached out to the smiths and mages in the Capitol. We . . . can’t even figure out what it was made from. I don’t think it’s possible to fix it.”

The hammering stopped, replaced by Sylvain’s heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He knew—of course he knew. A part of him had hoped that it could be fixed, that the constant pain in his hand would cease as reward. That, while this was a punishment for his carelessness, it would just be a temporary one.

But Sylvain Gautier was never that lucky.

He reached out, taking the Lance in hand. Even with gloves on, his hand burned like it had the first night. He forced his expression level, even as the agony amplified the nearer he brought it to his side.

“Well, guess I’ll have to put in some effort to scare off bandits, won’t I?” He tried a laugh, but it barely qualified as an exhale.

“I’ve repaired your armor before, my Lord. Doubt there’s much need to worry about that.” There was something behind that look on the blacksmith—like he knew that there were hundreds of souls waiting for Sylvain in hell, and wished for him to meet them sooner.

Sylvain stepped back, pausing at the sensation of being watched. He could feel the piercing gaze like a knife at his spine, sliding between the seams of his coat. Something dripped down his back—he couldn’t tell if it was blood or sweat.

He had to leave, _now_. A knot curled in his stomach, making his shoulders stiff and his tongue uncooperative. “I, ah,” Sylvain licked his lips, “how much do I owe you for the work?”

The man blinked. “My Lord, you already paid.”

“Right, yeah . . . right.”

“My Lord, you look pale.” The man shifted, as if he was going to move around the table. No—he couldn’t—it was the only thing currently keeping Sylvain from sprinting away. “Maybe you should sit down for a minute.”

Sylvain raised a hand, grateful that the man froze. He could imagine resting here. He could see himself lounging on a sofa by the fire, closing his eyes for a moment’s peace. He used to, when he wanted to escape, when he was certain that no one thought the Margrave would be anywhere near a weapon shop. Now, all too easily, he could see one of those halfway-repaired weapons being thrust into his heart.

“I was headed home anyway.” Sylvain said, taking another step back. Now he could see the figure in the dark. Watching, waiting. “I’ll rest there.”

“Of . . . of course my Lord.” Did the man look . . . disappointed? “Be safe.”

Sylvain hurried out as quickly as he could without drawing attention. If he kept his gaze to the floor, then he didn’t have to see all the eyes that he knew were upon him.

Sylvain leaned against the workbench in the armory, staring at the Lance of Ruin, set up in its now permanent resting place. In theory, he should have put it over the mantle, or in the dining hall, or somewhere more glorious than this. To him, though, it seemed better to let it rest here than to constantly put it on display. Sylvain still wasn’t entirely sure if he did that for respect or spite. Perhaps both.

Its glow was weaker now, light wavering like a candle about to be snuffed out. It didn’t move as much, though it still reacted rather violently to him. But it was only a matter of time before that stopped, too.

He glanced down at his hands. Even the small trip from the blacksmith to the Gautier estate had been agony. He’d thought the thick leather of his gloves would diminish it. When that didn’t work, he’d wrapped it in his cloak. Even then, he was certain that it would be less painful to hold glowing coals.

The marking on his left hand had spread completely now—every inch of his skin there was black like ink, shadows curling up toward his elbow. The burnt shadows followed his veins like a poison, expanding outward the further up his arm it spread.

His right hand had a single black spot in the center, no wider than a gold coin.

“You’re doing a number on me, aren’t you?” He asked, as if the slowly twitching protrusions could answer him. “Guessing this isn’t going away anytime soon.”

_‘Ha,’_ the voice was painfully familiar, setting Sylvain’s nerves alight in a way the pain only dreamed of, _‘don’t tell me you’re still so clueless.’_

Sylvain spun around, mouth dry. There, just in the doorway, stood his father. He looked the same as the day Sylvain buried him—wrapped in his armor and regalia, white hair tied back behind his head. Deep lines only emphasized the scowl on his lips and the narrowing of his eyes.

Like always, words failed Sylvain when his father was around.

His father’s head tilted. Slowly, he advanced from the doorway, every movement silent. _‘Or are you still playing clueless?’_ His scowl deepened. _‘I taught you to present yourself better than that_.’

If it was a nightmare, then his mind was acting in poor taste. Though it was a nice reprieve from his recurring one. It was unbearable to think of his friends willingly wanting to destroy him; it was entirely normal for his father to regard him with nothing other than disappointment.

Sylvain stood, facing the dead man. If this was a nightmare, then he’d wake soon. If this was just his imagination, then it couldn’t hurt him. If it was truly a ghost, well, it wasn’t like a person could outrun a spirit, anyway.

’ _Or, perhaps, you do get it_.’ His father’s eyes shifted down to Sylvain’s hands, an eyebrow raised.

Sylvain swallowed. “Get _what_?”

His father smiled. ‘ _You wanted to destroy our legacy. It’s only just that it destroys you.’_

Useless. Everything was useless. Among the stacks of papers, the rolled parchments, the books piled high, nothing—not even one sentence—could save Sylvain. Not those from the Gautier libraries. Nor those he had negotiated from the church. Not even those he had persuaded from Yuri’s underground haven (and _that_ hadn’t been cheap, though clearly that didn’t matter anymore). All of them, every last one, merely sealed his fate. They all pointed to the same thing.

The Heroes’ Relics were indeed magnificent weapons, born of a sacred power far grander than mortals. In normal situations, it would eat away at human flesh, warping it into something foreign and monstrous. It seemed that the Crest Stones were initially created to prevent this, to serve as some sort of regulator—to tame the power into something more manageable. It was the regulator that was activated by the Crest blood—attuning the weapon and its power to its owner. Without the Crest Stone, there was no intermediary, exposing the owner to the full extent of the weapon’s power. Without the Stone, it didn’t matter if someone had Crest blood or not. Eventually—in time—they would be consumed by the weapon.

Which meant that Sylvain would share the same fate as Miklan, and there was no way to stop it.

Sylvain sighed, closing the book in front of him. His fingertips traced over the Crests on the cover. The Professor had managed, somehow. Even now, they looked to be in the same condition as they had when they first arrived. There was no sign of corruption on their skin, no hearing whispers from people not there, no paranoia about being watched, no ghosts—then again, not even time had managed to affect them, so how could a Heroes’ Relic?

Whatever had spared the Professor would not spare him.

He rose from his chair, not bothering to tidy the mess at his desk. He’d pour through it again tomorrow when his work was done, searching for anything he might have missed. But, for now, he needed rest. A tired mind and late hours wouldn’t help him, not when it could impact his search the next morning.

_If_ he made it to the next morning.

He rubbed the back of his neck, averting his gaze whenever he passed his staff. It didn’t make the sensation dissipate completely, but it did mitigate it. At least he was uneasy, rather than panicked.

With a sigh, he pulled back the glove on his right hand. The darkness had spread quickly, already up his wrist. He didn’t want to know what his other arm looked like. For hours now, pain had dominated his entire arm, all the way to his shoulder. He didn’t think the darkness had had spread quite that far yet, but the pain was always the precursor to something worse.

He glanced up, eyes falling on the portrait just outside his own room. He’d refused to take a personal one, not keen on staring at his own face. Somehow, he’d convinced his oldest friends to join him—insisting it was something to remember them by, since he couldn’t leave Gautier often. They all had agreed their own way, taking their appropriate places around the King. Both Dimitri and Ingrid had smiled pleasantly, Felix scowling the whole time the portrait was being taken. But even then, Sylvain could see that small glimmer of a smile in Felix’s expression.

He’d have to tell them. It seemed pretty sensible that he’d have to leave before he fully turned—get himself lost in the forest and let the beast starve—but he couldn’t do so without them knowing. Otherwise, they’d search for him. And they’d find him. And he’d rather burn in hell a thousand times over if it would prevent him from hurting them.

But there were two inherent problems. One, he wasn’t exactly sure _what_ he could tell them. He wracked his mind constantly for ideas, praying for a moment of genius where he’d suddenly know exactly how. Choosing to abandon Gautier wouldn’t be enough; allying with a foreign country would also fail spectacularly; just telling them the truth, well . . .

That was the second problem. He wasn’t sure he _could_ tell them the real reason. It sounded absurd, inane. And even if he had the proof, he’d just—

No, that was his cowardice talking. They’d believe him if he told them. If he showed them, that would cement their beliefs all the more. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he could bear them looking at him like he was a monster—like they had in his nightmares. He’d seen it enough there to know the real thing was so much worse.

He sighed, turning his attention to his door. There was one more alternative, if he thought about it. But that he wasn’t sure if that would loose the beast immediately. And he wasn’t quite at the point where he could be certain it was better for everyone if there was suddenly no Sylvain Gautier.

Shaking his head, he opened his door and slid inside, letting the door shut with a nearly inaudible click. It was probably just his tired brain talking, worry and paranoia seeping into his every thought. If he slept—even if it was only for an hour or so—then maybe it would give him a temporary reprieve.

His eyes flicked up to something unfamiliar. A large shadow, sitting on the frame of his window. He couldn’t make out the features—the moon was too bright behind it, making the figure seem even larger. The window was slightly open, wind pushing against the shape and rustling its fur. It was a beast—what else could it be?

No, a beast couldn’t make it to the second floor without alerting the staff. Unless—

An icy eye shimmered as the head—or he assumed it was the head—tilted. The creature began to move—rising from its station and taking slow, hulking steps toward him. Sylvain stepped back, but it was futile; the door pinned him in place, offering no reprieve, no retreat.

So he stood there like a deer trapped, body tense, eyes watching. If he had the chance, he could flee. Maybe the objects in his room would be enough of an obstacle. Maybe the jump out the window wouldn’t kill him.

Though Sylvain realized—rather quickly in fact—that he had no way to escape. The creature was wider than he anticipated, rapidly trapping Sylvain in the doorway. He could try to grapple his way past, but even then, Sylvain knew he didn’t stand a chance. Even if he wasn’t sleep-deprived and the weakest he’d ever been, there was no standing against such a hulking mass.

A claw reached out, and Sylvain flinched, scrunching his eyes shut and looking away. He could accept his death—that didn’t mean he had to watch it.

But nothing happened.

Sylvain exhaled slowly, willing his heart to calm. He could feel his fingertips tremble as they pressed against the door, but he already knew it was futile to fight his instinct. When he felt almost in control of himself, he let his gaze slide back toward his attacker.

It wasn’t a claw, it was a hand. Not even a gloved one—just a normal, scarred, familiar hand. It hovered just a few inches from his face, as if a touch could shatter Sylvain. Attached to that hand was Dimitri.

The mass and fur was just his cloak, held loosely over his shoulders. Both it and his long hair shifted in the wind, the ponytail probably long-discarded when he prepared himself for sleep. True, Dimitri was still bulky beneath the cloak, but it was hardly formidable with his whole frame neatly wrapped in his nightclothes. Even his eyepatch was off—a vulnerability that only a select few had ever been graced with.

That Sylvain thought _Dimitri_ threatening—Dimitri, who he had wooed with sweet words and even sweeter gestures, who he relished getting to blush whenever he could, who always had the most absurdly romantic gestures in his mind whenever _he_ tried to romance Sylvain— _that_ was terrifying. It hadn’t even been a month, and he’d already slipped so far.

“Sylvain?” Dimitri’s voice was soft, hand still frozen in face.

Sylvain swallowed. He’d never seen that expression on his face before, but he couldn’t place what it was, or what it meant. Too easily the darkness warped it to the face of his nightmares, even though Sylvain knew better.

“Please,” Dimitri whispered, “tell me what happened.”

He wanted to. So desperately Sylvain wanted to. But he couldn’t; the terror of the beast inside him won. It shoved the dreams—no, the promised future—to the forefront of his mind. Reminding him, begging him to survive just a little longer.

Sylvain shook his head.

Dimitri frowned, finally letting his hand rest on Sylvain’s cheek. If it bothered him that Sylvain flinched, he didn’t show it. “You’re trembling.” His voice was soft, no greater than a whisper. His other hand joined, cupping Sylvain’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Please, _Beloved_ , tell me.”

Sylvain groaned, heart thrumming again in his chest. Too often had he heard that word whispered against the back of his neck, like punctuation between kisses. Too often had that word been shared between them as Dimitri pressed kisses to Sylvain’s palm and wrists, smiling against his skin. Too often had he huffed that name like a pouting threat every time Sylvain teased him.

He couldn’t ruin that with this.

Sylvain pressed his lips together. Slowly, he brought his hands up to Dimitri’s wrists, praying that the trembling would subside before they touched. But, like with every other prayer to the Goddess, it fell on deaf ears.

“I’m fine.” He said, sliding on that charming smile. His room was dark enough, it would be convincing. Gently, he tried to pull Dimitri’s hands away, but it only made them more insistent. “I must have been sleepwalking.”

Dimitri grunted. He leaned in a bit closer, eye flicking across Sylvain’s face. “Odd, I thought one needed to sleep for that.”

“Fine.” Sylvain said, not missing the foreign anger in his own tone. “I’ll go to sleep. Happy?”

When Sylvain pulled away again, Dimitri didn’t stop him. Instead, he looked . . . hurt. “I hear that’s what you’ve been telling the staff, too. And yet here you are, every night, working until you nearly collapse. Or you wander—not the estate, not the town, no one seems to know.”

Sylvain huffed, looking away. Well, at least the eyes weren’t completely imaginary. have to be more careful.

“ _Sylvain_ ,” Dimitri growled, going rigid when Sylvain flinched again. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What are you doing? I thought here you’d . . . you’d be okay. But . . .”

Sylvain bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing a snort. He was never okay in Gautier. It just so happened that it was far worse this time. _Goddess_ , he was too tired for this. “Shouldn’t you be in Fhirdiad?”

Dimitri hummed, tilting Sylvain’s face with a gentle press of a finger. When Sylvain didn’t pull away, Dimitri pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I would be, if you’d answered my letters.”

Ah, of course. It felt ages away now, like the memory of a past life. But still he could remember. He’d spent a month at Sreng for negotiations, then another two weeks at the border. After that, countless weeks of this. He’d been so distracted; he’d forgotten that he was supposed to write when he’d gotten home.

If it weren’t for this situation, Sylvain would be absolutely enamored, act a fool for the rest of the night. Even now, he _wanted_ to be, wanted to fall into Dimitri’s arms and dote on him with the all the affection he could, just to balance the swelling in his heart for being worried over. He wanted to, at the very least, let himself get distracted by that sensation.

But pain and fear had taken root too deeply. Any other emotion was too difficult to feel these days. But if he tried hard enough to look deep in his heart, he could feel a soft affection.

Besides, he knew what enamored was supposed to look like. He’d played so many roles, took on so many faces—it had always been too easy to analyze his natural one. He could play the part of himself tonight. Test his limits as an actor.

“And so the King goes questing to find his missing lover.” Sylvain tried to keep his tone light and playful. “I think I might swoon, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri laughed, instead nudging Sylvain’s cheekbone with his nose. “Perhaps bed first, to break your fall.”

Sylvain hummed, lacing his fingers with Dimitri’s. “Only if you’ll join me, Dimitri.”

Dimitri sighed, kissing along Sylvain’s jaw. His fingertips pressed into Sylvain’s hips. “I won’t argue.”

“Good.” Sylvain pulled Dimitri along, grateful that he’d already changed into his nightclothes for tonight. He wasn’t entirely sure the dark of the night could hide his markings.

As he sat on the bed, he tried to pull Dimitri down with him. But the man stood solid, using the place where their fingers connected to pull Sylvain’s hands close. “What’s this?”

Sylvain winced. He could hide a lot with his nightclothes, but he couldn’t exactly explain away the gloves. And he was absolutely _not_ going to remove them.

Dimitri’s frown returned, gaze darkening. “Sylvain.”

“You caught me.” Sylvain said, shrugging. “They grip nice. _Really_ nice.” His smile turned sly as he leaned back as far as Dimitri’s grip would allow. “Should I show you?”

Dimitri hummed in a way that was definitely not a no.

Dimitri’s visits in Gautier were often painfully short. It wasn’t uncommon for Sylvain to shirk his duties, following alongside the King under the premise of acting as a guardian. If they were alone, he’d lace their fingers together; if they weren’t, a hand might brush against Dimitri’s, or perhaps he’d lean just enough in a feigned curiosity at Dimitri’s work, leaning their shoulders together. Sometimes on a whim, he’d pull his King into the nearest nook he could find, just to get the taste of his lips once more. Sylvain didn’t care if they were caught—he was certain his staff knew, considering they never interrupted him as they usually did in his room or in the office—though it clearly made Dimitri uneasy. So, in a consideration born of the foolishness of love, Sylvain had been happy to play that game, happy to keep their most intimate touches and whispers kept to the confines of his room.

Even now, Sylvain tried to make the most of these moments, knowing he’d have so few left—no, he _knew_ he’d be long gone before Dimitri visited again.

The problem was that every moment was laden with paranoia. He suspected that the staff knew. He could tell in the way they looked at him as he walked by. He didn’t have to hear the words in their whispers to know that they were afraid of him—that they thought he might try to kill them at any time. People were desperate by nature; it was only a matter of time before they tried to kill him to save themselves. His only sanctuary was in Dimitri’s arms— and that was only because the man still looked so little like the dream-Dimitri that Sylvain _knew_ he was still ignorant.

The pain was constant, now spread now entirely up both his arms, seeping toward his chest. It was impossible to sleep; occassionally he would collapse from exhaustion, but even then he’d only get an hour or two before the restless agony forced him awake once more. There was no pleasure to be had when misery left no room for the distraction.

But it was _Dimitri_. Dimitri, who had suffered so much and had come so far. Who had turned from a terrifying beast into the kind king that Faerghus needed. Who wanted to do everything he could to bring his people peace, even at the cost of himself. Who worked himself so ragged that—in the most extreme cases—even Dedue would ask Sylvain to make a trip to Fhirdiad.

In those times, he’d let Sylvain take care of him. Let him soothe him and sweet talk him and press kisses anywhere he could. Even when the moods took over—as if often did—he let Sylvain guide him out of the darkness with a gentle hand.

And yet, now, Sylvain was forcing him to stay in the dark. He smothered Dimitri’s concerns with a smile, shooed his worries with the wave of his hand. Everything had an excuse: if he stumbled over his own feet, it was just from spending too long looking at paperwork; if he stared off into the distance (those whispers clearer every day), he was just distracted thinking naughty thoughts; if he was avoiding people, well, it was because he had things to do and he was just too much of a gentleman to make any sort of conversation brief.

Each time, the excuses were harder to fabricate. He could see the beginning of doubt in Dimitri’s eyes, clear enough that he knew it wasn’t his imagination. But it was Dimitri—even after so much betrayal, he still wanted to believe the best in people. He still, undoubtedly, wanted to believe that Sylvain loved him too much to lie to him.

And Sylvain loved him for that, he truly did. Loved him enough to let Dimitri wrap him in his arms, to let him enjoy the sensation of them falling asleep together. Loved him enough to return to bed come morning, so he’d think Sylvain had never left. Loved him enough to let Dimitri dote on him, to think that he was helping. Loved him enough to not openly question why Dimitri was lingering in Gautier so long.

He should tell him. He knew he had to. The whispers demanded it every time he saw Dimitri smile at him. The eyes glaring into his back accused him every time he looked away. If his father’s ghost had revisited, the man would mock him, too.

But Sylvain couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear the thought that his subconscious would be right—that Dimitri would look at him the same way that the one in his dreams did. 

Sylvain sighed, trying to focus on the feeling of Dimitri pressed against his back. An arm wrapped around his stomach in a possessive way, pulling Sylvain close in a way harder and harder to get out of each night. Even in his sleep, the man pressed kisses to Sylvain’s shoulder, unintelligible words muttered against his skin. Sylvain envied him—envied that the perpetually restless king could sleep so easily.

Sylvain, however, wasn’t so lucky anymore. He opened his eyes again, gaze settling on the figure sitting at his desk. At Miklan sitting there, arms crossed, smirk carving a deep crease into his cheek.

It had startled him once—when he was alone, when he was just on the brink of sleep, when he was just careless enough to forget his fate. Miklan’s presence had been fleeting then, harsh whispers of loathing that Sylvain could not decipher from his own imagination.

But now, the man’s presence was constant. His brother hung around him like a noose, the knot pulling tighter every day as he whispered mocking taunts into Sylvain’s ear. And only Sylvain could see his owm impending execution.

_‘Who knew your ambitions reached past Gautier?’_ His brother said, tilting his head. Golden eyes shimmered as Sylvain visibly tensed. _‘My title, father’s Lance, and now . . . Fhirdiad’s king.’_

Sylvain’s lip twitched, but he said nothing. Arguing was a futility that wasn’t worth waking Dimitri.

Miklan laughed. _‘Such a pathetic fool. Lying with your enemy—but that’s all you’re good at isn’t it?’_

Sylvain bit the inside of his cheek, forcibly scrunching his eyes closed. If he could just fall asleep, then he wouldn’t have to listen to his brother’s jeering. He tried to focus on the warmth of Dimitri’s fingers against his shirt, his soft breath shifting the hair at the nape of his neck.

If he could just fall asleep, he could get a moment of peace.

_He steps back, knowing his magic will not come in enough time to save him. His only chance lies in his friends, in the others who surely know he’s being attacked. They will come and they will save him and once again they will lecture him for being careless, for refusing to take his responsibilities seriously. They’ll come._

_But his back presses against stone, and the distance between him and his attackers lessens._

_“Allow me.” A voice says, and the crowd parts._

_Sylvain knows that face. He can’t help the emotion bubbling in his chest at that familiar blue eye, at the blonde hair desperately in need of a haircut, at the armor that makes him seem more a mountain than a man. He smiles._

_‘Sweetheart,’ he wants to say, but his voice doesn’t cooperate. ‘Love,’ he tries again, but his mouth refuses to form the word. ‘Dimitri,’ he finally attempts—_

_—and out comes a roar._

_Dimitri falters, but it’s only slight. Instead, his hand grips tighter around Areadbhar, his other hand motioning with a flick of his fingers. There are the others—Felix, Ingrid, Annette, Mercedes, Dedue, Ashe—and he wants to call out to them, to tell them there must be a mistake. But all he can do is roar, and all he earns are their faces contorted in terror._

_But Dimitri doesn’t look afraid. Instead, his expression hardens. “All we can do now,” he says, “is put an end to it.”_

_Dimitri charges, Areadbhar glowing in his hand._

_Sylvain roars, hand reaching for the Relic as it swings down at his hand. His claws wrap around the blade, finding it all to easy to halt the strike completely. He steps forward, and Dimitri stumbles back._

_Felix charges, and Sylvain easily grabs the man’s hand. His claws dig into the man’s flesh, and Felix’s pained groans bring a vindictive satisfaction that Sylvain hasn’t felt in ages. He throws the man aside, watching in pleasure as the body crumples._

_The others charge, and Sylvain easily swipes them away with his tail. He breathes, and they scream as flames engulf them._

_Dimitri yanks back Areadbhar, a feral shout ripping through his throat as he tries to strike again. Sylvain catches it, and an idea strikes him._

_He digs his claw into the Crest Stone, smiling as it shatters. Black ooze seeps from the Relic, and another is condemned to his fate._

Sylvain woke with harsh coughs wracking though his body. His shoulders shook with each wet cough, every movement useless in grasping air. But he could feel it—feel whatever it was—moving in his lungs. He jolted upright—snapping himself from Dimitri’s arms—and leaned over the edge of the bed.

And, with one last pained cough, a bitter, viscous liquid plopped onto his glove.

He coughed again, but it was easier with air finally in his lungs. A few more drops of darkness followed the first; they weren’t as big, but they were the same inky color, the same viscosity. The same mysterious liquid that had seeped from the Lance and that had claimed his brother.

A hand pressed against his back, rubbing a small circle into his skin. “Beloved,” Dimitri’s voice was soft with sleep, groggy in a way that slurred his syllables, “are you alright?”

Sylvain clenched his fist, hiding the evidence. He wanted his hand to stop trembling, but it was futile. “I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t sound ‘fine’.” The bed shifted, one of Dimitri’s arms wrapping around him as he pressed his forehead against Sylvain’s nape.

Sylvain sighed. He didn’t have the energy for this. “Naughty dreams, that’s all.” He wished it sounded as lighthearted as he wanted. “Guess I choked myself up.”

“Sylvain . . .”

Sylvain turned his head, pressing a kiss to Dimitri’s forehead. “Go back to sleep. I’ll get some water, and be right back.”

“I can—”

“You can sleep.” Sylvain said, ever the hypocrite. “Dedue will kill me if you go back tired.”

Dimitri sighed, shifting to catch Sylvain’s lips with his own. “Return quickly.”

“I will.” Sylvain lied.

Sylvain stepped into the snow just outside the manor. He’d thought there would be some peace in the forest—some silence in the absence of people. But his every breath echoed between the trees, the wind whispering idle threats into his ears. Every breeze came with a curse, every sound echoed with hatred.

Sylvain stopped, eyes falling over the features of the landscape. It looked so soft here, the snow glowing with the light of the moon. Everything was covered in a blanket of ice, a soft accent to the dark trees, the ragged hills, and the boulders.

‘ _To think_ ,’ Miklan hissed in his ear, ‘ _you could have died in a beautiful place.’_

Sylvain swallowed. There was no Dimitri to serve as a distraction this time. There was no reason for his brother to leave him.

‘ _Instead . . .’_

Sylvain looked down at his glove; the darkness wasn’t spreading here—not like it had on his skin—but it seemed to seep into the leather. With a sigh, he scooped snow into his hand, trying to rub away the smudge. It did nothing; he’d have to replace this before morning. 

The garment useless, Sylvain pulled at the leather, easing it off his fingers. Beneath, the skin had warped again. The blackened skin pulled tight over muscle, deep red peeking beneath the flesh. The pain on his fingertips had long since ceased, but his fingers hardly looked like fingers anymore, the tips curling into claws. He’d have to dull them to keep a convincing shape.

Eventually, the claws wouldn’t be the only thing he had to conceal. Eventually, the changes would be more drastic—impossible to hide. Eventually—if he wasn’t stopped beforehand—the change would occur in one final blow.

‘ _Instead_ ,’ his brother’s voice was low, a laugh in his tone, ‘ _he’ll find out . . . and he’ll kill you.’_

“I know.” He whispered, voice hoarse.

‘ _I can’t wait to watch._ ’

Sylvain prodded at his meal with his fork, shifting the scraps of cabbage across his place. He knew he should be grateful for it—few people could enjoy such a nice meal as he could. But the eggs on his plate soured his stomach, and the pheasant made him crave something more—something that made him all the more nauseous.

The nausea was only made worse by the uneasiness that crawled up his spine. He didn’t look up, but he knew Dimitri was watching him from across the table. He’d been quieter lately. His affection was limited to sparser touches—a brush of Sylvain’s cheek with the back of his knuckles, a caress of fingers through his hair, a small kiss to his temple.

It was possible he knew. No, it was impossible to be otherwise. He didn’t ask Sylvain what was wrong anymore. He tolerated Sylvain’s distance, his lies, his coughing. Dimitri simply watched with a cold stare and a scowl.

Dimitri was a king—a proper king. Which meant that, if he did know, he’d have to handle this in the way best for the Kingdom. Even if Sylvain was corrupted, the loss of the last Margrave would be a hit to the Kingdom. The alliances with Sreng were still fragile, the land was still struggling to get a secure balance. The loss of Gautier could be the crack that would shatter the Kingdom. He’d have to handle this wisely; and, clearly, he hadn’t figured out how. Yet.

Sylvain loved his King and his Kingdom enough to help him.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sylvain said, not missing Dimitri’s twitch in his peripherals, “a lot, lately.”

Dimitri set his fork beside his plate, the click nearly deafening in the silence that stretched between them. When Sylvain raised his head, he found Dimitri staring at him.

Sylvain swallowed. “I was wondering . . . if I should start looking to make an heir.”

Dimitri coughed, his body twitching in a rather visceral rejection. “P-Pardon?”

Sylvain shrugged, resting his chin on his fist. “It’s not like I’ll be around forever.”

“Y-yes, but,” Dimitri’s cheeks were reddening. He grasped at his wineglass, like that might ease his discomfort. The metal twisted in Dimitri’s grip. “There’s no reason to rush that.”

“I suppose. But it will take time to raise a child right. And time to find a suitable match.”

Something in Dimitri’s expression shattered. “Sylvain.”

Sylvain looked away. “You should, too, Your Majesty. I bet Felix has made a list of good girls for you. Goddess knows he wouldn’t allow any I picked.”

“ _Sylvain_.” Dimitri’s voice cracked between syllables. “You cannot be serious.”

It was hard to keep looking away. But this was for the best. This was the safest. It was too late for an heir—and frankly he’d rather the line just died out—but it wasn’t too late for Dimitri to loathe him. If Sylvain was too slow, and he did turn, then maybe Dimitri would regret killing him less. “I think this is the first time I’ve been serious in a long time.” He said, words heavy on his tongue.

“That’s _enough_!” Dimitri’s fist slammed on the table, the force cracking it in two. Their meals splattered on the ground, wine spreading over tile like blood.

Slowly, Sylvain rose from his chair. He looked at Dimitri, sliding on his actor’s smile—the one he’d always used for anyone who ever tried to use him.

“I-I’m sorry.” Dimitri’s hand flinched back from the shattered remains of the table. “I—I just don’t understand.” Sylvain expected him to be angry, for him to hate everything that was Sylvain. Instead, he looked up at Sylvain, eye wide and lips parted. Even now, there was only trust and deep, unending concern.

It was always foolish to trust Sylvain. “I think it’s time we stop playing games.” Sylvain said, stepping away from the destruction and into the hall. “I think it’s time we started following our duties.”

Sylvain walked into the back of the manor, back to where he’d once followed his brother. It was funny, when he thought about it. As a child, he’d constantly followed Miklan—making the same mistake again and again. As an adult, he followed his brother’s example and rejected his father’s desires—embracing Sreng and shunning the expectations of his Crest. And now, well, now he was going to become a beast just like his brother had.

His eyes followed the path of old stones left to disarray after years of disuse. At its end lay the old stone well, left to crumble when it had no more water to offer them.

With a sigh, he slid down, resting his back against it. Behind him, he could hear some of the stones fragment, echoing as they fell down the well to the dirt far below.

He glanced into the forest. He should have left a long time ago. Should have left once he started seeing the ghosts of his family. Maybe he should have when he’d started hearing the whispers. But he was weak, and he was a coward. And he didn’t want to face them alone.

But now, maybe, he should.

“Sylvain.”

Sylvain glanced up, surprised at himself for not being surprised at Dimitri’s presence. Maybe it was because he still hoped, prayed, that the Savior King could save him. But Sylvain knew—without a doubt—that Dimitri would be cursed, too, if he let this façade of peace go on much longer. His dreams had at least told him that much.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sylvain shrugged, pulling his knees to his chest. He had to stop this. “Nothing.”

Dimitri huffed. He stepped closer, dropping to his knees in front of Sylvain. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sylvain’s lips twitched. Well, Felix’s ‘boar’ nickname wasn’t entirely a misnomer. “Nothing. I was just thinking realistically.”

“Sylvain.”

“Dimitri.” He smiled. “You had to know we couldn’t enjoy this forever. It had to end sometime.”

Dimitri growled, the tone low in a way that reverberated through Sylvain’s bones. He ran his hand through his hair, though it was more grasping than any sort of soothing motion. “Why won’t you trust me?”

Sylvain tilted his head. “Well, I trust you to do what’s right.”

“No, you don’t.” Dimitri’s voice cracked again. “Why don’t you trust me to help you?”

Sylvain swallowed. He dug his fingers into his leg, the sharpness of the claw beneath his glove making him wince. “I don’t need help.”

“You do.” Dimitri glanced up, eye catching Sylvain’s. From here, Sylvain could see that the bag under his eye was almost as prominent as the ones on Sylvain’s face. “I’m not stupid, Sylvain.”

Sylvain merely looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

“You jump at any noise,” Dimitri raised a fist, his frown deepening at Sylvain’s instinctive twitch. “—not even that, _any_ sort of movement.” A single finger curled out from his fist, but he wasn’t pointing.

“I was in Sreng for a while,” Sylvain tried, the lie lame on his tongue, “it makes you twitchy.”

Dimitri shook his head, raising another finger. “I haven’t seen you eat for three days.”

Oh, so it was a list—a tally. “I’ve been busy.”

“You haven’t slept in days, if not weeks. And I’ve barely seen you talk to anyone, let alone flirt.” Two more fingers. “And . . . and you constantly stare off, like you’re listening to someone else.” And there was the fifth.

“You’re imagining things, making it bigger than it is.” Sylvain huffed, glancing away. Dimitri’s gaze was just too intense. “I’m just tired.”

“That’s _not_ it.”

Sylvain huffed a weak imitation of a laugh. “And how would you know?”

“ _Because this isn’t you_!”

Sylvain flinched at Dimitri’s shout, back pressing firmly against the well’s stone. His breath caught in his throat, eyes already looking for an escape. But where could he go? The manor was a prison, and he’d certainly not outrun Dimitri in the forest.

Dimitri groaned, rubbing his face. “I don’t know what this is, and I don’t pretend to know what’s going on in your head. But something is. And it’s something you can’t handle alone.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

In a way, Sylvain knew Dimitri understood. Even though it had been years since the war, Dimitri still had those ghosts haunting him, their claws still digging into his back. Even now, he always needed someone to help pull him free, to bring him back to reality.

It just couldn’t be Sylvain anymore.

“Nothing. It’s nothing” Sylvain muttered, eyes following Dimitri’s hand as it settled on the stone by his head. The man was practically hovering over him now, pinning him in place with his body.

“Please, Sylvain, if our relationship has ever meant anything to you, you have to tell me.” Dimitri’s face contorted, flashing between enraged and sorrowful—and Sylvain couldn’t tell which was real. The sound of stone cracking behind him was no help. “I want to help you.”

It wouldn’t be hard to shove him away. It wouldn’t be hard to wrap his hands around the man’s throat, pressed until his gasps were useless and his face started to change color. Or he could snap that arm, ensure that Dimitri never thought of touching him again. 

If he changed, it wouldn’t be hard at all to press fangs against that exposed throat.

Sylvain twitched, a shudder running up his spine. He was here too long, going far too late. The sensation of liquid in his lungs started to build again, threatening to choke him. “You want to help me?” He asked, tone bitter.

“Please. Sylvain, _please_.”

The truth settled in Sylvain’s stomach like lead. Pretending that everything was okay only made Dimitri suspicious. Turning Dimitri away only made him more persistent. No doubt running away would make Dimitri give chase. And Dimitri stood no chance against the beast.

There was only one alternative.

“Then kill me.”

Stone crumbled behind him in a sickening crunch. Sylvain could feel the cold air of the well brush against his back, tickling at his hair.

Dimitri was pale—paler than the first snow of the year. His eye was wide, unfocused. Even as he looked at Sylvain, it was like he was already looking at a ghost. Perhaps he already was. “What . . .?”

Sylvain smiled, perhaps the most legitimate smile he’d had for weeks. “I’m sure you heard me.”

Yes, this was the best way. He would die as a man, or lose himself and be killed by the beast. At the very least, he could die a way he wanted.

“I’m going to die soon, anyway.” Sylvain said, hiding a small cough behind his hand. The sensation was growing, throat tightening as if the beast could sense him wishing it ill. “I’ve been thinking, maybe I wouldn’t mind so much if you beat Death to it.”

“Stop this. Please.” Firm hands clamped down on his shoulders. Dimitri’s head was dipped, breaths shaky and uneven. “You’re insufferable and I can never understand what’s going on in your head. And even—even when you’re like this—closed off—I can’t—you can’t just—” A sob racked through Dimitri in a way that even Sylvain could feel in his own bones. “Why can’t you just be honest with me?”

Sylvain winced, swallowing hard as Dimitri’s grip tightened. Pain radiated anew, every single inch throbbing like it was the first time all over. And quickly, so quickly, the flames were starting to lick at places they’d not yet ventured.

“Stop.” Sylvain gasped, voice weak. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get air.

Dimitri didn’t even notice. His fingers shook. “Why? Why can’t you tell me you don’t want me—and stop whatever this is?”

“Let . . . go.” His hands pressed feebly against Dimitri’s shoulders.

Dimitri shook his head. “Sylvain, please, I just—I want to—"

“I said _let go_!” Sylvain roared, digging his claws through his gloves and into Dimitri’s hands, not caring if he tore the skin or shattered bone as he ripped the hands off him. With what energy he had left, he used his hold to throw his King as far away from his as he could

Sylvain barely heard the sickening sound of Dimitri hitting a tree before he was doubled over, the coughs forcing their way out of his body. The black ooze fell from his lips in an amount that should be impossible—that was absolutely impossible with the size of his lungs and stomach.

But that was it, wasn’t it? He was already corrupted through and through. The realities of the human form had already abandoned him, leaving him to whatever the monster had left for him.

There was no hope left for Sylvain Gautier.

“Sylvain—what—”

Sylvain gasped, finding some relief in his lungs as the coughs subsided. He glanced up, eyes catching Dimitri’s expression. He looked horrified, his face an echo of his friends’ from his dreams. Even in the distance between them, Sylvain could see him tremble.

Sylvain wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. His eyes settled on the ooze on the fabric. These were pointless now, weren’t they? They would no longer hide him from others. And he couldn’t pretend that they’d hide him from himself.

He removed the gloves, watching as the warped skin glistened in the limited sunlight. Emphasized tendons and muscles flexed as he curled his fingers. Those claws pulled to a point. With them, he tore off his shirt—the motion too easy, the fabric too weak. The whole form of his chest had distorted now, muscles entirely obscured by deep ridges down his chest. The Gautier Crest was embedded deep into his skin.

“You told me once . . .” Sylvain muttered, running the claw through his hair. The point scratched at his scalp, but it didn’t hurt. “. . . that my brother was a monster.” He laughed, the sound foreign to his own ears. No—it wasn’t a laugh—but a growl, not unlike that of the monsters they had fought a hundred times before. It resonated with his brother’s laughter in his ears. “Looks like I’m one, too.”

“This is . . .” Dimitri inhaled sharply, “this is a joke, right?” He hadn’t moved, still sitting frozen against the tree.

Sylvain glanced down, the dark ooze shifting beneath him like it was alive. A sob caught in his throat. “I thought I had more time.” He dropped his head, letting the tears flow fully now.

Beyond his sobbing, he could hear footsteps approach. It took everything he had not to run away.

“Beloved,” Dimitri’s voice was quiet, but that didn’t hide how broken it sounded, “tell me there’s something I can do to stop this.”

Sylvain shook his head. “Just one thing.”

“Nothing else?” He could hear Dimitri swallow, could hear the quiver in his voice. “Please, _anything_ else.”

Sylvain shook his head. He didn’t want to die. Whispers swirled around him, promising impossibilities if he could just end the King. He could go to the markets again, flirt with the staff, laugh as they flushed and scolded him. He could keep his negotiations with Sreng, bringing their lands to a new prosperity. He could see his other friends again, watch them smile as they scolded him. He could play in bed, whisper sweet nothings to a lover’s ear. He could do anything, so long as Dimitri died and Sylvain lived.

If nothing else, at least Sylvain could enjoy spiting them. “Come on, _Your_ _Majesty_.” He said, words breaking apart between breaths. The ooze shifted from the ground, crawling up his fingers. “I don’t want to be a monster, and you can’t let a monster hurt your people.”

Fingers brushed against his cheek. The touch was gentle but uneven, pressing over ridges and lines that had previously not been there. They brushed back his hair from his eyes, sliding further until the pads pressed small, soothing circles to the spot just at the base of his spine. Lips pressed softly to the back of his head. 

“I’m sorry, Sylvain.” Dimitri whispered against his hair.

Sylvain closed his eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> I could not decide which ending I wanted, so it's an open ending. Either Dimitri has a new pet monster he has to train in the chance he can save Sylvain OR he puts Sylvain out of his misery. I have noooooo idea. 
> 
> As always, come yell at me on Twitter [@kayisdreaming ](https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming).


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